Skip to main content

Full text of "The Letters Of Horace Walpole Vol I"

See other formats

And Kitten, if the Humour hit, Has Harlequin'd away the fit. Since Mirth is good on this behalf At some partic'lars let us laugh.
*         *          *         *
Poor Authors worshipping a calf, Deep Tragedies that make us laugh; Folks Things Prophetic to dispense, Making the Past the future Tense. Disdainfull Prudes, who ceaseless ply The superb muscle of an Eye: A Coquet's April-weather Face, &c.
Hunting I reckon very good To brace the nerves and stirr the blood; But after no field Honours itch Atcheived by leaping Hedge and Ditch ; While spleen lies soft relax'd in Bed, Or o'er Coal Fires reclines the Head. Hygeia's sons with Hound and Horn, And social ciy awake the Morn: These see Her in Her dusky plight, Smear'd by th' Embraces of the Night, With roral wash redeem her face And [pr]ove* Herself of Titan's race, And mounting in loose robe the Skies, Shed Light and Fragrance as she flies.
Sometimes I dress; with women sit, and chat away the gloomy fit;
Quit the stiff garb of serious sense, and wear a gay impertinence.
Nor think nor speak with any pains, but lay on fancy's neck the reins;
Talk of unusual Swell of Waiste, in maid of honour loosely lac'd;
Of Kitty (Aunt left in the lurch by grave pretence to go to Church)
Perceiv'd in Hack with Lover fine, like Will and Mary on the coin, &c.
* MS. torn.